


The Ford

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Series: Aramis and Constance finding trouble [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-21 12:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: Constance is asked to accompany the musketeers on an escort mission, and gets embroiled in a tense standoff.Also, there’s a cat.
Series: Aramis and Constance finding trouble [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/201245
Comments: 34
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

Constance is confused when the queen first approaches her to ask if she will accompany two musketeers as an escort for the Comte d’Yvron. Her first thought is that the queen has become less subtle in her indulgence of Constance and d’Artagnan’s mutual pining, and has contrived a way to give them two days together on the road.

Then she meets the Comte, and he gallantly kisses her hand, leaving a smear of jam on it when he lifts his head. Constance straightens out of her awkward crouch. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur,’ she says, trying to hide her surprise.

‘Do you like kittens?’ he asks loudly. ‘I like kittens. Marie says I may take Liko with me when I go away.’

Constance glances, wide-eyed, at the exhausted nurse, then smiles at the child. ‘Yes, I like kittens,’ she says.

The nurse cannot travel with him, having four other children in her care, but the remaining family are unwilling to send the little Comte across country with only soldiers for company. His cousin’s estate is three days’ ride from Paris. Long enough to pick up bad habits, perhaps.

‘Did you know?’ she asks d’Artagnan in a mutter as they prepare the horses.

‘Not at first. I met the old Comte d’Yvron once, I was expecting a face full of white whiskers.’ D’Artagnan gives an uncertain look in the Comte’s direction, where he is introducing a smiling Aramis to a basket full of kittens. ‘What are we supposed to _do_ with him?’

Constance shrugs. ‘Keep him safe,’ she says. ‘What else?’

He still looks unsettled. She notices for the first time that he is armed to the teeth – the musketeers always wander around wearing multiple weapons as if battle might erupt in any street, but today d’Artagnan has an extra dagger in his belt as well as the pistol, and heavier pouches of ammunition than she’s seen him wear before. She glances at Aramis and notes that he, too, has supplemented his usual sword and pistols with a rifle slung across his back.

‘Are you expecting trouble?’ she says softly.

D’Artagnan stops fidgeting anxiously to stare at her. ‘Have you been briefed?’ Then, under his breath, ‘Whose _idea_ was this…’

She raises her eyebrows and waits. He sighs and moves a bit closer, conspiratorial.

‘That boy is the heir to the biggest estate in Brittany, and his uncle is a vicious bastard with a private militia.’ He grimaces. ‘You shouldn’t be involved in this.’

Constance tries not to let her alarm show. ‘I can handle a fight,’ she says, and he screws up his face, knowing better than to disagree, but still unhappy.

‘No Athos or Porthos today?’ she says, looking around – there are a handful of musketeers idling around the courtyard at this hour, but no familiar faces.

‘They got held up on their way back from La Rochelle. And we’re aiming for stealth on this one,’ d’Artagnan explains. His eyebrows are creased as if he doubts how effective this will be.

‘Ready to go?’ Aramis calls, giving Constance a tense smile.

Speed and stealth are of the essence, so there is no carriage. This might be the wealthiest child she’s ever met, but he’s travelling light, with his belongings packed into panniers, his little person dressed in an oversized leather coat and, yes, a kitten clutched tight in his arms.

‘We’re _really_ bringing the kitten?’ d’Artagnan says.

‘But of course.’ Aramis looks a bit frantic behind the smile.

‘Liko does not like this one,’ says the Comte, glaring at d’Artagnan, the kitten peering curiously out the collar of his coat. D’Artagnan bows his apologies, mumbling that he did not mean to offend, and stifling a sneeze when he gets too close to the tiny cat.

‘Are you armed, Constance?’ Aramis says quietly, pausing at her side.

She shrugs. ‘My belt knife.’

He shakes his head. ‘Alain – lend me your spare pistols, please,’ he says to one of the idling musketeers nearby. The man looks a bit reluctant, but hands them over, and Aramis swiftly checks the barrels before passing them to Constance to buckle around her waist.

Constance mounts, and Aramis lifts the Comte (and Liko) to sit in front of her. ‘Alright?’ he says, flicking his gaze to Constance as he positions the little boy’s legs securely against the front ridges of the saddle. ‘Hold on tight to the reins, please, Monsieur le Comte, and do everything Madame Bonacieux tells you.’

‘I will,’ the child says solemnly.

He’s a sweet little thing, she thinks – spoiled, of course, but how can a child grow up in the aristocracy without getting a turned head? But he charms her with chatter as they ride, and he takes Aramis’ order seriously; whenever she tells him to lean back or to hold on tighter he obeys immediately. His tousled fair hair tickles her chin. He seems to trust her immediately – and the musketeers as well, despite his continued disapproval of d’Artagnan for his anti-cat opinions. What sort of a monster, she thinks, could mean harm to such a child?

Aramis takes the lead, with Constance following and d’Artagnan at the back, scanning the other travellers and the roadsides with his keen eyes. Once they pass the walls, Aramis tries to mingle in a group of travellers following a trade caravan of some kind. As the traffic becomes sparser, he glances over his shoulder to catch Constance’s eye before turning off, taking a narrow fork road that follows a hedgerow along the edge of the last suburbs before turning into the forest.

It’s a gamble, she understands. On the road, there is more space if a fight breaks out, and more chance of aid if they get in trouble. On the narrower hedge paths, they might avoid notice entirely, if they’re very lucky, but ambush could be nasty if they’re _not_ lucky. None of them wants to take a child into a battle.

The Comte tires; he stops chattering and leans more heavily against her, but he doesn’t sleep, peering out from under his hood with wary eyes. They keep to a quick trot; the terrain is too variable for a faster pace.

Later in the afternoon, there is less cover – the country here is wide open, heather and gorse lying low to the ground but no trees to hide behind. Every crow taking flight startles her.

And of course, they eventually have to stop. A child that young just _can’t_ ride all day. They water the horses at a narrow stream, and Constance encourages her charge to eat some bread and cheese. Liko delicately sniffs at some dried meat, and deigns to eat it with some milk. The Comte looks mournful at the prospect of getting back in the saddle, but he doesn’t cry. She makes sure he’s well wrapped in the oversized coat; it’s getting colder.

After a muttered conversation between the two musketeers, they decide that an inn is safer than camping. More chance they’ll be seen, but more defensible than a campsite. Constance doubts she’ll get much sleep.

Outside Paris and away from the boy’s prim guardians, safety is a higher priority than propriety, They share one room; d’Artagnan sneaks down the back stairs and brings food up rather than risking the exposure of the taproom. Constance shares a narrow bed with the child, who is wriggly for a while but then sleeps heavily, snoring quietly. There’s one other bed: Aramis and d’Artagnan sleep in shifts. Liko is found in the morning curled up in Aramis’ hat.

Constance feels a little more secure the second day. They made it this far, after all. But the Comte is exhausted and fractious – they have to stop more often, and their progress is slower than they’d like. But still, there are no disasters – the closest is the tense five minutes when the Comte shrieks that Liko is missing, and she has to turn out two saddlebags before he is discovered curled up in the hood of d’Artagnan’s cloak. D’Artagnan, sneezing, gives the cat an accusatory look when he’s sure the Comte isn’t paying attention.

The third morning is grey and damp. They should arrive by mid-afternoon, even after yesterday’s setbacks. Constance feels lighter, and of course it’s just when she starts relaxing that everything falls apart.

The first sign is Aramis’ whistle; he pulls up sharply, his horse snorting in surprise. Constance stops alongside him, hunching around the child. ‘Don’t move,’ he hisses. There’s some disturbance on the road ahead; she can’t see clearly, but Aramis obviously thinks it could be a trap.

A very long ten seconds pass, silent.

D’Artagnan cries out, raising one hand to his head. Constance ducks – a second projectile flies out of the trees. She reaches for the pistols, curling her body forwards around the Comte.

D’Artagnan is still in the saddle, but his aim is wobbly as he makes to fire back; there’s blood on his neck. Aramis fires, somewhere out of her eyeline, twice. Constance turns the horse as quickly as she can, aims her pistol at the first flash of movement she sees. Three men break cover – she shoots one in the leg and he drops, shouting. Another is reaching for her horse’s bridle. Lurching gracelessly sideways, she kicks him as hard as she can in the face while she cocks the other pistol, then, while he’s disoriented, shoots him in the throat. It’s a horrible sight, but she doesn’t have a free hand to cover the little Comte’s eyes.

Aramis is fighting with vicious efficiency, hacking downward from the saddle until one of them slashes at his horse’s rump and she rears – he swings down dagger first, meeting one of the attackers head on.

But d’Artagnan is struggling. He’s taken a hard blow to the head, and it shows in his unsteady movements. He’s still fighting, but clinging to the horse’s mane with his free hand.

The attackers are well armed, but a small group. Given what she’s heard about the uncle’s private militia, that just means this isn’t the only party hunting them. Constance has no time to reload, but she manages to use one of the pistols as a club effectively enough.

Aramis straightens, breathing heavily. Constance realises with a jolt that they’re alone on the road again. She nods to Aramis and leans forward to reassure the Comte as best she can – she can feel him trembling against her, not crying but making little muttered noises of panic.

D’Artagnan has been pulled from the saddle, but he must have managed to finish off his opponent nonetheless. He’s swaying on all fours in the leaf mulch. Aramis crouches and grasps him by one shoulder, carefully probing the bloody patch in his hair. D’Artagnan’s back heaves and he retches. Constance winces in sympathy, her chest tight with worry.

When he’s finished, Aramis hauls him to his feet, drooping and listing, eyes a little glazed. Constance looks at Aramis, who shrugs, pale-faced. ‘It’s not much further,’ he says tersely. She nods, holding her little charge close.

When Aramis tries to help him back into the saddle, d’Artagnan sways and loses his footing, then slumps in his arms.

‘Aramis?’

‘I don’t know…’ He shuffles backwards, struggling to manoeuvre d’Artagnan, who seems to be out cold. ‘He took a blow to the head.’

‘We can’t stay here,’ she says desperately.

‘I know, Constance.’ He looks ragged himself, pale and dishevelled, still out of breath from the fight.

‘Can I help?’ she edges the horse forwards with her knees. There isn’t much she can do other than hold the horse steady while Aramis heaves d’Artagnan’s limp form onto his shoulder and carefully transfers him to the horse’s back. He uses his sash to secure him as much as possible, but he’s unresponsive.

‘It will slow us down,’ he says, eyes pinched at the corners in worry.

‘I know. Is he alright?’

He makes a helpless gesture and reaches again to check d’Artagnan’s pulse. ‘As far as I can tell, but it was a bad hit.’ He moves between the horses, reaching up to touch the side of the Comte’s arm. ‘Monsieur, are you well?’

The boy nods bravely, sniffling just a little. Remarkably, the kitten is still tucked into his coat, woken but not dislodged by all the noise and panic.

‘Are _you_ well?’ Constance asks. Close up he looks worse; there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and his eyes are bright black against his unusually pale face.

‘Well enough,’ he says, smiling his liar’s smile.

He remounts smoothly, and they set off again in close formation, keeping the horse bearing d’Artagnan’s still form between them.

They were lucky once, Constance thinks. There are more of them out there.

It’s getting cold.


	2. Chapter 2

The road wends out of the wooded area and follows a river. They’re exposed, visible from the other bank and, Aramis says in a pained mutter, the estate they’re making for is on the other side. It doesn’t take a genius strategist to realise that the best place for an ambush is the river crossing – a ford about a mile downstream. The only alternative is a bridge eight miles the other way, and it’s too late to change their route. Slowed down by the last attack, there’s no way they’ll outrun pursuit to the bridge.

Aramis reloads both his pistols, then swaps with Constance and reloads those as well, and the one hanging at d’Artagnan’s belt.

‘After we cross the ford, it should be half a mile to the gate,’ Aramis says.

Constance looks at him sharply.

‘If you get an opportunity to go, Constance – you must get the Comte to safety.’

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t leave you on your own.’

He is uncharacteristically stony-faced. ‘You have to – complete the mission.’

‘You can’t stay safe and protect _d’Artagnan_,’ she protests, but she already knows it’s useless. They have their mission, and the child is their responsibility.

The river bends southwards as it widens before the ford, where two roads meet at the river crossing. There’s very little tree cover, so if anyone was lying in wait too close they would be visible, but Constance can already hear hooves beating on the road.

‘Go!’ Aramis yells, digging his heels in to urge the horse forwards, but he is slowed down by leading d’Artagnan’s horse. Constance kicks her horse into a canter, gripping the Comte as close to her body as she can. A musket ball whistles past her ear. 

They splash into the ford. Aramis, standing in his stirrups, turns to fire a pistol at the leading horseman, then ducks to avoid the return shot. Constance twists awkwardly to look back to him, aiming at the nearest rider. One of them draws parallel with Aramis and lashes out with a blade; Constance thinks he dodges it, but he’s let go of the horse bearing d’Artagnan’s inert form. She fires again before another mercenary can catch up to her, and in the instant she’s distracted, Aramis and his opponent both go down with a colossal splash.

The two riderless horses flee, kicking up the water and hopefully missing Aramis with their hooves. He staggers to his feet, drawing his sword now that his wet pistols are no use. The other man hasn’t got to his feet yet, and Aramis dispatches him quickly. There are more coming.

‘Constance, _go!_’ he yells.

She has fired both shots already. Aramis wades over to d’Artagnan’s horse, which is still dancing sideways in the ford. D’Artagnan lifts his head blearily, but he’s not alert enough to be any help.

‘Aramis,’ Constance yells, hesitating at the far bank.

‘Go, now!’ he yells, slapping d’Artagnan’s horse on the rump. The animal needs no further encouragement to flee, splashing across the knee-deep water towards Constance. Aramis follows on foot, but stops near the shore to guard their retreat, sword and dagger in either hand.

Constance hates this. The little Comte shudders with sobs against her, choking and hiccupping with terror. She casts one final look over her shoulder. D’Artagnan’s horse draws level with her and she grabs for the trailing reins, kicking her mount into motion. Another musket ball passes far too close. She flees.

-/-

For a moment when he hears Constance’s horse start to canter away, he feels a swell of relief. There isn’t much time for that, though. There are bodies in the water, and more riders approaching.

Pistols would be better for this, but he took a roll in the river and doesn’t have any dry powder.

The first one that comes in range, he throws his main gauche. It lodges in the man’s throat and he topples backwards off his horse. The animal has too much momentum to stop, Aramis reaches to grab it by the reins, but one of the other mercenaries fires a shot and the horse screams in agony, one of its legs collapsing. Aramis staggers back out of the way as it falls, has to duck another shot aimed at his head. He hacks upwards with his sword, gets a knee to the side of the head for his trouble and lurches backwards, manages to keep his feet.

Luckily the mercenary is too enraged to let the attack pass – if he had ridden on past to chase Constance and d’Artagnan, Aramis would have had no way to stop him. He stretches up, feels the movement tug at his abused torso, grabs the man by the front of the coat and yanks him off balance, hits him with the hilt of his sword.

Another rider fires a shot. Entangled with the man he’s still trying to pull from his mount, Aramis can’t dodge far enough and the shot skims the back of his neck. He flinches, but can’t afford the distraction.

The man he has hold of is trying to stab him in the face, hanging sideways off his horse, face set in a vicious snarl. Aramis hits him again, keeping hold of his wrist with the other hand. He’s stunned enough to lose focus, and Aramis hits him again, harder. There’s still a sheathed pistol strapped to the man’s chest. He grabs it by the handle, then lets the unconscious mercenary fall with a splash into the water.

He aims at the next rider, fires. Catches him in the shoulder, which might not be disabling enough.

The last rider is smart enough that he’s gone wide, trying to get past Aramis and go after the real quarry. He takes his eye off the man with the shoulder wound – the only projectile he has is the pistol, and he throws it at the man’s head in the hope that it will enrage him enough to prevent him charging off after the others. Against all reasonable odds, it connects, clocking him in the side of the head; not hard enough to stun, but enough to be an irritant. Aramis grins.

He staggers sideways, stunned by sudden pain in the side of his chest. Blinking, water still dripping off his hair into his eyes. He chokes on air, his breath catching on the pain in his chest. It’s getting harder to move with the water tugging around his knees. Off-balance, he strays too close to the dying horse; a kick to his hip knocks him off his feet. Another faceful of water. He jolts up again, gasping, struggles to get his feet under him.

Two riders – the one he shot in the shoulder, and the one he threw the spent pistol at – are still nearby, but they’ve all but dismissed him. There’s a lot of blood in the water nearby, but not necessarily his.

Seeing him back on his feet, one rider aims another pistol at him. He dodges, but it costs him. He loses his footing, drops to one knee.

He has no weapon left on him but his sword, and they’re already leaving. He can’t stop them. Left alone, exhausted by failure, he starts crawling towards the shore.

-/-

Constance rides, lips in a grim line. The Comte is shuddering in front of her with great heaving sobs. She keeps him clamped against her body with one arm, the other gripping a bundle of reins.

At her side, d’Artagnan is slumped forwards over his horse’s neck but stirring anxiously – it’s difficult for him to get upright with the way they used Aramis’s sash to tie him onto the horse.

‘D’Artagnan?’ she calls. What a way to wake up. She knows she can’t stop to pick him up if he falls. ‘Are you with me? Don’t move.’

‘My _head_,’ he says. His fingers twitch, moving to grip the mane under his hands.

‘Can you fire a pistol?’ Constance shouts, pushing on. She risks a glance at him – he’s starting to look more alert, but she needs him to recover quicker. ‘D’Artagnan?!’

‘I’m here,’ he calls back; his voice is tight and pained but he sounds present. She releases his reins and speeds up, heart hammering. To her relief, he matches her pace.

‘Have your pistol ready!’

There’s a fork in the road ahead; she can just about make out the gate. Aramis was right – it’s not far.

As the gate comes into focus, she hears sounds of pursuit.

‘Give up the boy, Madame!’

The Comte whimpers, trying to burrow deeper into Constance’s arms. ‘It’s alright,’ she promises softly, not slowing down.

‘We’ve got no quarrel with you, musketeer! Just give up the boy!’ calls the same voice, and it’s immediately answered by a gunshot and a strangled yell. Constance flinches, and doesn’t look back.

The gate is high, and closed. She rides close enough to hammer on its wood with the flat of her hand. ‘Let us in! I’m with the Comte d’Yvron!’

The pause gives her time to look back. D’Artagnan has turned, wrestled his way out of the sash inhibiting his movement, and drawn his sword. A riderless horse overtakes him, and one more mercenary is approaching, sword raised. He has a red mark on his face that will blossom into a spectacular bruise later, and she thinks of Aramis – did he inflict that injury? How did they get past him? 

‘Let us in!’ she shrieks, hammering on the gate again.

‘Prove yourself!’ demands a muffled voice on the other side of the gate.

‘We don’t have time!’ she yells back, furious.

Another pause. D’Artagnan and the mercenary are hacking at each other from horseback, horses dancing anxiously underneath them. The gate creaks and finally moves an inch inwards. She shoves at it impatiently but it’s secured with a chain.

‘Monsieur le Comte?’ someone asks, 'is that you?'

‘Help me, help me, help me,’ squeaks the Comte, squirming in Constance’s arms.

‘Let us in!’ Constance orders again.

D’Artagnan takes a knock to the side of the head and reels back, reining his horse in. His opponent grins savagely, surging forwards.

The gate opens.

‘Madame?’

Constance has no time for explanations. ‘Take him, take him somewhere safe!’ she demands, lifting the child down with her hands under his arms. ‘I need a pistol!’

They look a bit taken aback – these are a provincial lord’s bondsmen, some of them little more than boys; they probably don’t spend all their time bristling with steel like a lethal hedgehog, unlike certain men of Constance’s acquaintance. They stare at her, trying to work out whether this wild-eyed woman is mad, dangerous, or both. But they can see the battle still underway not twenty yards away.

D’Artagnan is listing to one side, still gamely trying to deflect his opponent’s blows. But then he gets his bell rung _again_ and has to grab for the horse’s neck with both hands to keep his seat. His sword clatters against the road.

Someone puts a pistol into Constance’s outstretched hand, and she doesn’t even think. She aims for the head, pulls the hammer back – as the mercenary raises his sword to plunge towards d’Artagnan’s back – fires.

He topples backwards off the horse, lands badly on his head, but he was dead before he hit the road.

Constance finally dismounts. She runs over and grabs d’Artagnan’s horse by the reins, reaching out to check his pulse. He’s still conscious, more or less, eyes screwed up against the light and fresh blood glinting in his hair. ‘Constance,’ he mumbles.

‘I’m here. We made it.’ She leads the horse over to the gate. The Yvron guardsmen let her pass, looking a little stunned. ‘You’re alright,’ she says to d’Artagnan. He moans doubtfully.

‘Take the Comte to the house, please,’ she tells the nearest guard, whose livery suggests that he holds a senior rank. ‘And this man is a musketeer, he was wounded defending us.’

‘My master will be glad to help him, Madame. He will be most grateful to all of you. Please, follow me.’

She shakes her head, pushing the reins of d’Artagnan’s horse into his hands. ‘No, I have to go back; we left a friend on the road. Please take care of them for me.’

He grabs her arm, alarmed. ‘Madame, it’s not safe!’

She shakes him off, moving back towards her own mount. The pistol she’s holding is an unfamiliar design – it fired easily enough, but she’s not sure how to reload it.

‘Reload this for me?’ she says. Watching the queen has given Constance a swift education in giving orders. Make it polite, but don’t imagine for a moment that anyone would dare disobey.

She reclaims the pistol, hauls her aching legs back into the saddle. The horse is still trembling with exertion, and she’s sorry to ask more of her so soon, but it can’t be helped.

‘Madame Bonacieux?’ The Comte is peering at her over the guard’s shoulder.

‘I’ll be back soon, Monsieur,’ she tells him. ‘With Monsieur Aramis.’


	3. Chapter 3

She passes two bodies in quick succession, and a horse who has wandered away from his fallen rider to munch on a nearby bush. The road is quiet otherwise as she retraces her steps, but she’s not fool enough to assume they’ve seen the last of the Yvron uncle’s mercenaries.

The ford begins to come into focus – she can see bodies in the water; at least one horse collapsed in the shallow water. She tries not to let herself indulge in horror. It does no good to fear the worst.

Just as she reaches the bank, a movement in the undergrowth catches her eye. A figure on his hands and knees is stirring there – soaking wet, head drooping, hair in his eyes, and aiming a pistol at her in one wavering arm. She gasps, and dismounts in a graceless hurry.

‘Get back!’ he croaks. The pistol is very unsteady, and it’s Aramis’ own, she recognises the beautiful filigree handle, which means the gunpowder is wet and it won’t fire anyway.

‘It’s me,’ she says.

‘I’ll shoot!’ 

‘Good luck with that,’ she says, impatient. 

He drops to sit on the ground, finally raising his head enough to see her properly. The pistol drops from his fingers. ‘Constance – what are you doing here?’

‘The Comte is safe,’ she says. She drops to her knees in the leaf mulch beside him, picks up the discarded pistol and shoves it in the back of her belt beside the loaded one. She reaches to push his hair back off his forehead. He blinks at her, wheezing with exhaustion. There’s a bruise forming across the side of his face. She notices blood on her fingers – not a head wound, she’s relieved to find, but a bloody crease across the back of his neck: a close call, but thankfully shallow.

‘I couldn’t stop them,’ he pants.

‘It’s alright,’ she says, pushing his hair back again. ‘Look at me, it’s alright.’

‘It’s not safe,’ he protests. His breath catches and he flinches in obvious pain. Constance winces in sympathy, shuffling closer on her knees.

‘Let me see.’ She tries to be gentle moving his coat aside. The shirt underneath is bloody – a lurid shade of pink where blood has been diluted with river water. ‘Oh, Aramis,’ she murmurs.

He reaches for her wrist. ‘Not now.’

‘How bad is it?’

He gives her a wan version of his usual smile, and she shakes her head mulishly. She tugs off her shawl.

‘I can bind it at least.’

He presses his lips together and inhales roughly as she pulls the shirt out of the way. She lets out a tiny sob, overwhelmed. There’s a lot of blood – what looks like a shallow sword slash across the side of his belly, but a more concerning wound just above – probably a musket ball, somewhere in his lower ribs. It’s beyond what Constance can deal with. She ducks her head so that he won’t see her blink back tears, then shakes her dishevelled hair back and reaches for her skirt.

She has to use her belt knife to detach a strip, folds it, presses it over the more serious wound. His fist clenches around a handful of her skirts as he tenses in agony. She hums soothingly, winding the shawl around his torso to tie the makeshift bandage in place. She makes it as secure as she can. He shudders as it tightens – probably the rib is cracked underneath, if not broken.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. Her hands are bloody. She scrubs them on her clothes, lifts his chin with her thumb, laying the other hand over his where it’s gripping skirt. ‘That’s all I can do for now. Can you stand?’

He takes a long breath, and nods. He lurches to his knees; she crouches and hauls the arm on his uninjured side over her shoulders, other hand braced against his chest. ‘Are you with me?’

He’s very shaky, and when he puts weight on his left leg he flinches hard. Constance curses viciously. ‘I should have checked; where else are you injured?’

‘It’s – just a bruise,’ he croaks, face half-buried in her shoulder. ‘Horse kicked me.’

‘Today hasn’t been your day, has it?’ She dredges up a tired smile.

He groans. ‘We’re still alive,’ he offers, though he doesn't sound thoroughly convinced of it just now. 

They limp towards the road. Constance’s horse is waiting not far away. She looks around in the hope there might be a second one idling nearby, but any horses who lost their riders in the last skirmish seem to have moved on; probably they had the sense to go seek food somewhere safer. If she can get Aramis on the horse, she can walk the distance herself; so long as more mercenaries are not chasing them. 

She'll wonder later if she cursed them just by thinking it. She feels Aramis tense and looks at him first, then follows his gaze towards the road. She first sees the dust being kicked up before she sees four more riders approaching from the southern road on the far side of the river.

'Apparently it isn't _my_ day either,' Constance growls. Aramis sighs heavily in agreement.

‘If I ask you to get on that horse and ride away…’ he mutters.

‘I would laugh in your face, and possibly also punch you,’ Constance confirms.

His smile is a little pained. ‘I don’t suppose you have a loaded pistol?’

She grabs one of the weapons from her belt, presses it into his hand, closing his fingers around it. ‘We could pretend to be innocent travellers who know nothing about the Comte?’

‘The bodies in the river might harm our case.’ He straightens carefully, settling his weight back onto his legs. He loosens the sword in its sheath with his free hand. Constance grips her belt knife, keeping a grip on the horse’s reins. They wait.

One of the riders in this group is conspicuously well dressed, obviously not just another hired sword. He rides well enough, but he lacks the lethal singularity of purpose that characterizes men who fight for a living. He slows down as he reaches the ford, and Constance wonders whether he’s concerned for protecting the fine fabric of his breeches from splashing.

Aramis aims the pistol but holds off firing. They only have one shot, after all.

‘You there!’ calls the aristocrat, halfway across the ford. Constance raises her eyebrows. ‘Where is the boy?’

‘Which boy would that be, Monsieur?’ Aramis calls back. His voice is roughened by pain, and since he’s already told Constance he has no faith in this strategy, she assumes he is just trying to irritate the enemy for his own amusement.

‘Don’t play dumb with me, musketeer,’ the man spits back. They draw level, and the aristocrat’s escort of three grim-faced mercenaries circle them. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

Aramis shrugs. ‘Enlighten us,’ he says, offering the man a savage little smile. His arm remains steady, aiming the pistol squarely at the man’s chest.

‘Watch your tongue,’ snaps one of the mercenaries. ‘I’ll shoot the woman.’

Constance glares up at him defiantly, but the aristocrat signals him to hold his fire. Possibly, she thinks, with his fine clothes and aloof expression, he has little taste for first-hand violence.

‘Your superiors have lied to you, musketeer. I am the Comte d’Yvron, like my father before me. That illegitimate brat has no claim.’

Aramis says nothing, and his aim barely wavers. Constance breathes steadily, poised to move when she needs to. 

‘My brother’s wife was a damned whore. Any child of hers could have had a dozen fathers.’

Constance is struggling to keep the disgust off her face. She notices Aramis’ arm trembling, and steps forward to distract from his weakness.

‘Any man who would kill a child is no nobility in my eyes,’ she snaps.

She sees rage flare in his eyes and he jerks forwards; obviously, he is a man who cannot tolerate being reprimanded, least of all by a commoner and a woman. His patience is running out.

‘You! Search the area for the boy.’ Two of the mercenaries peel off into the undergrowth. The aristocrat sneers down at them. ‘Put the gun down, musketeer. If you shoot me, my men will kill you, and I dread to think what they’ll do to your mistress.’

‘Who’ll pay them to kill me if you’re dead?’ Aramis asks mildly.

The Comte opens his mouth, but has no answer for him; his rage is visibly building up. 

The bravado is working for now, but Constance isn’t sure how long Aramis can stay on his feet, and if the men in the trees realise that there’s no child anywhere nearby they will quickly lose what little leverage they have. One shot isn’t going to go very far, and her little knife barely counts as a weapon.

‘Who’ll pay them if you’re alive?’ she says loudly. ‘You have no right to the Yvron estate. I imagine the true Comte could pay them better.’

‘Silence, whore!’ he leans precariously forward in his rage, and Aramis seizes that moment to break the stalemate. He drops the pistol and lurches forwards, getting hold of the man's trailing coat-front while he’s off balance and pressing his advantage, pulling him out of the saddle.

His yells draw the mercenaries’ attention. The one nearby, still mounted, spurs his horse in Aramis’ direction but stops when Aramis puts his sword across the aristocrat’s throat, holding him in front of his own body like a human shield. 

Constance hurries round to guard Aramis’ back; she draws the useless, damp pistol from the back of her belt and aims it at the nearest mercenary's head.

‘Don’t come any closer!’ she yells. Constance is a good liar; it took nearly a decade of marriage for Jacques to realise how much she hated him. She's bluffing now for everything she's worth.

‘Kill them, you dogs!’ shrieks the nobleman, squirming in Aramis’ grip.

‘What has this man done to deserve your loyalty?’ Constance demands. ‘He asked you to kill a child! He’s a monster. It’s over for him.’

‘Kill her! Kill her!’ the false Comte is crying.

Aramis hisses at him to hold his tongue, but the man is hysterical in his struggles, and as he wrestles for purchase he drives an elbow back hard, straight into Aramis’ wounded ribs. Aramis is shocked by the sudden spike in agony, and the other man is quick to press his advantage, aiming for the same spot again. Forced to release him, Aramis drops to his hands and knees, choking helplessly. The aristocrat cruelly seizes a handful of his hair and wrenches his head up. He’s wide-eyed, stunned by pain, breathing hard and painfully through his nose.

‘Let him go!’ Constance shouts, edging closer, struggling to keep the mercenary in view as she turns the pistol towards them. Then, pressing her luck, ‘Don’t imagine for a moment that I won’t shoot!’

The false Comte bares his teeth at her in a horrible smile, yanking on Aramis’ hair again and driving a knee into his back. Aramis cries out in pain.

Constance tenses in sympathy and rage; for a moment she feels like there's no sound in the world, then the pistol in her hand roars.


	4. Chapter 4

She can’t hear anything, the echo of the shot ringing in her ears. Reality seeps back in slowly. It feels like for a long moment she can hear the river water clattering against the stones of the river bed and nothing else; the air is sucked out of the world.

Aramis has collapsed to his knees and forearms on the shore next to the false Comte’s body. The body has fallen face up, and at such close range the impact is horrific. Constance realises that the smoking weapon is still in her hand and immediately wants it as far away from herself as possible.

Shakily, she approaches. There are still three mercenaries nearby, but they don’t seem too certain of their loyalty now. If they have any sense, they'll leave it and seek other employment. The executors of a man who died in the attempt to kill his own family are unlikely to make good his debts to the mercenaries he hired for the deed. Constance keeps a wary eye on them, but they make no move to intercept her.

‘Aramis,’ she says, stooping to touch him on the back. He nods shakily, head still hanging, and pushes off the ground with one hand.

‘You’re – alright?’ he says on a hard exhale.

‘I gave you the wrong pistol,’ she says blankly. ‘God – I didn’t mean to…’ she trails off, because that’s not quite true. In the moment, watching him hurt Aramis with such sadistic pleasure, she absolutely meant to kill him. ‘I didn’t expect to kill him,’ she corrects. She takes Aramis’ extended hand, and pulls him to his feet, ducking again under his arm.

‘You’re alright?’ he repeats.

‘I have no idea,’ she says honestly. ‘What do we do about them?’

The mercenaries have regrouped some distance away, but are paying little attention to Constance and Aramis. Aramis shrugs unevenly, too exhausted to care. Parts of his shirt are scarlet now, but there’s no colour at all in his face.

‘Can you mount a horse?’ she says. This close, she can hear the effort he’s putting into keeping his breathing steady, and he’s not at all steady on his feet, struggling not to lean on her too heavily. ‘I can help you,’ she whispers. She squeezes his arm. ‘Trust me – I’m stronger than I look.’

He blinks, and smiles faintly as he allows some of his bunched muscles to relax. ‘Strongest woman I know,’ he mutters. They shuffle forwards together. At the stirrup, Aramis looks up wearily and sighs. He climbs up like every limb weighs a hundred pounds, his arms trembling as he hauls himself straight, and for a moment he has to bury his face in the horse’s neck, almost sobbing in agony. Constance wants to cry, but she pushes the instinct down, reaching up to brush his hair back with a hand.

‘It’s alright,’ she murmurs. ‘You’ll be alright. You poor thing.’

It takes a moment before he can speak, but he nods vaguely against the patient horse’s mane, choking his breath out.

‘It’s not far,’ Constance says.

She decides to steal the dead man’s horse so quickly, her former self would have been shocked – Constance the respectable draper’s wife had never imagined herself doing such a thing. But her horse is too exhausted to carry two, and it’s not like the false Comte has any use for it, lying there with a mess of blood where his face should be.

Aramis is not quite upright, but steady enough. She reins the larger horse in, draws level with him. ‘Let’s go,’ she says softly, and he seems to nod, though it’s equally possible he’s just struggling to hold his head up. She nudges the horse into a walk, considers reaching for the reins of the other, but Aramis shifts his weight and directs the horse to follow.

The mercenaries are still watching them, but Constance assumes they would have attacked them already if they were going to. It’s obvious that neither of them has much fight left, but they’ve exceeded expectations already and, after all, that Comte isn’t going to be paying any hired swords. She keeps an eye on them as they pass and they return her gaze, equally suspicious.

Constance has covered this distance twice already, but this time is much slower. The false Comte’s horse is skittish and much stronger than she’s used to, but she’s stubborn with exhaustion, keeping them strictly to a walk. Aramis is steadier than d’Artagnan had been, but he’s still shaking, and still trying to stifle his reactions to the pain in his ribs.

Eventually, too tired to be polite, Constance snaps, ‘Just cry, it might help. I hope you’re not trying to impress _me_ with your stoicism.’

A hoarse laugh is startled out of him at that, followed by something like a whimper. ‘I wouldn’t – wouldn’t dream of it,’ he gasps. One hand releases the reins to clutch tight at his side. ‘Ohh, that hurts,’ he admits, screwing up his face. There are unshed tears in his eyes when he finally looks at her. ‘Poor Constance. All day – babysitting broken musketeers.’

She smiles at him. ‘Much more trouble than the child I was assigned to look after,’ she says.

The gate is shut, of course, but Constance has no compunctions about hammering on it with her fist. She was almost killed far too many times today to care about social niceties. Luckily, several of the same guardsmen are still on duty, and they recognise her immediately. They look a little overawed by Aramis’ uniform, though he is far from his most impressive just now.

Constance is not officially in charge of this mission and is outranked by everyone here in military terms, but she takes command anyway. She sends one of the younger boys for a physician and sets a guard for the gate just in case. By the time she actually meets the master of the house she has effectively got his entire household following her orders – the Comte’s cousin; she gathers he is a Marquis or some such title but scarcely has energy to pay attention.

‘Madame, we have so much to thank you for,’ he says, bowing deeply. He’s a little ridiculous in his velvet doublet, but it soon becomes clear that he’s the most guileless and genuine aristocrat she’s ever come across, and he is desperately grateful for his little cousin’s safe arrival. Constance is as polite as she can be, but she’s impatient to see d’Artagnan and to check that Aramis is in good hands. She’s swaying on her feet by the time a bowing servant shows her upstairs.

She looks in on Aramis and the physician tending him, then goes in search of d’Artagnan. She finds him dozing, a clean bandage wrapped around his head, propped up on pillows. He stirs slowly as she comes in, and blinks awake when she softly calls his name.

‘…Constance?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’ She sits down more heavily than she intends to, the bed is very soft. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Mmrrrgh. I’ll live.’ He scowls, apparently deeply offended that his head is betraying him. She strokes the blanket down across his chest.

‘How much do you remember?’ He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. She’s not surprised—that head wound had been nasty.

‘The Comte?’ he says sharply.

‘Here. Safe.’

‘And Aramis? I don’t remember seeing him…’

‘He’s here too. He was wounded, but I think he’ll be alright.’

D’Artagnan relaxes visibly, so she doesn’t elaborate. She’d like to tell someone how terrified she was; that she thinks she might have killed four or five men today, men who might have had children, whose mothers loved them, probably. She thinks he’d understand if she told him that she feels exhaustion that goes to her soul, like a layer of black tar on her skin. Her throat still feels constricted on terror. It hurts. But he’s in pain, and looks like he’s holding off sleep with an effort. She strokes his hair back, very gentle on his abused head, and feels the tension ebb out of him.

At the door, a smartly dressed servant is standing by. She should go to Aramis; she’s worried about him. But the servant says, ‘Shall I show you to your quarters, Madame?’ and she finds she doesn’t have the strength to object. Left alone, she takes her boots off and loosens her stays and then thinks she’ll lie down for a moment before she undresses properly, and fades out.

-/-

Constance wakes up, sprawled on top of the blankets in her clothes. Her eyes still feel grainy and her body grimy with road dust and sweat. Her legs ache. But her mind is a little clearer in the light of day: she did what she had to, and brought her friends and their charge to safety. The safe, bourgeois Constance Bonacieux she still sometimes finds in herself is appalled by the violence, but it feels like a distant version of herself. She can be pragmatic now. If some men died because they tried to kill her and her friends, well, she won’t mourn them.

D’Artagnan is asleep still, and looks peaceful. Aramis is less settled – his wounds have been bandaged and the way he is propped up is probably easier on the ribs than sitting up or lying flat, but she can see how it still hurts him in the crease of his eyes. He smiles for her, though.

‘Constance, forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look very well-rested.’

‘I could say the same to you.’

He shrugs, conceding the point. He's still very pale, grey half-moons under his eyes, and the bruise on his face has developed dark. 'The physician knew what he was about,' he says. 'But it will take time.' 

'I'm glad we're all safe,' she says, with more emphasis than she intended. She feels a little deflated after all yesterday's excitement.

‘I owe you my life once again, Constance.’ He says it lightly, but the way he looks at her is so sincere that she almost wants to shuffle her feet in embarrassment. It’s the bravest thing about him, she sometimes thinks: of course, he’ll run into any number of battles, but that unflinching sincerity is much rarer.

‘Don’t say that like it’s a debt to be paid,’ Constance says quietly. ‘You’re my brother, remember?’

It’s an old, stupid joke: once upon a time, Aramis introduced himself to one of her busybody neighbours as her brother. She told him off for it at the time, but she likes to remind him every now and then, usually to reproach him for telling ridiculous tall stories. But it means much more to her than a joke, and she thinks to him as well.

He lifts his hand to take hers, and presses it gently against his lips. ‘I’m not likely to forget,’ he says.

-/-

Some hours later, Constance has bathed and eaten and found that her saddlebag miraculously survived the journey, allowing her to put on a clean shift. She feels almost like a person again. D’Artagnan is awake and well enough to walk carefully across the hallway: he’s still flinching away from bright lights but the nausea seems to be better.

She leads him to Aramis’ room so that each of them can satisfy themselves that the other is alive and reasonably well. D’Artagnan is struggling with his youthful honour, anxious that his performance in the previous day’s battles may not have reached the standard required of probationary musketeers.

Aramis teases him gently for sleeping on his horse and leaving Constance to do all the work, and Constance tenses, but for some reason it seems to help d'Artagnan relax. He gathers himself enough to tease Aramis back for dunking his pistols in the river. The pistols, she notices, haves been carefully taken to pieces and left out on the table beside the bed to dry. 

The quiet is shattered when the Comte charges into the room like a tiny tornado, exclaiming loudly with excitement at the sight of them all.

‘You were so brave!’ he shrieks, gripping Constance’s skirts tightly. ‘I never saw a lady musketeer before!’

She ought to correct him, but neither Aramis nor d’Artagnan seems concerned - both appear to be suppressing laughter. 

‘I’m very glad you are safe, Monsieur,’ she says.

‘I am safe! It was so exciting! Those men! They were so scary!’

She can see d’Artagnan wincing at the pitch and volume of the Comte’s enthusiasm, so she tries to politely wrap up the conversation, assuring the child that they are all well. He leaves as he came in, at a flat run, in search of his cousin.

Aramis smiles at the small form disappearing up the corridor. 'Brave lad,' he says softly. 

'At that age,' Constance agrees, 'he was very steady, the whole time.'

D’Artagnan sneezes, cradling his aching head in one hand.

‘We never get such thanks from adult Comtes,’ Aramis says.

‘Do you think Captain Tréville will give me a commission on his recommendation?’ Constance suggests, smiling.

‘I will happily endorse it, as you know.’

D’Artagnan sneezes again.

‘Are you alright?’ Aramis asks him.

‘Yeah, have you seen…’

‘_Mrrraw_.’

Liko emerges from the crease of fabric between Constance’s skirts and the bedclothes. His tiny nose twitches, and he pads a few steps along towards d’Artagnan before curling himself into a tighter ball, pressed against Constance’s leg. She feels a little disloyal when she reaches to tickle the kitten’s chin, but his fur is too soft to resist.

‘The _cat_ made it,’ d’Artagnan mumbles, incredulous. ‘Through _all that_?’

‘_Mrraw_,’ says Liko, pushing his brow against Constance’s hand.

‘All for one, and one for all,’ Aramis says wryly. He scratches Liko’s back with his fingers. D’Artagnan sneezes again, and shuffles his chair further away.

-/-

A day and a half later, Athos and Porthos arrive, apparently dispatched by the captain to check whether they are still under siege from the false Comte’s men. They find them enjoying the sun on the house’s back terrace – the damp weather having finally broken, both invalids are allowed out of the house by the rather severe-faced physician. The Comte is chasing his cousin and her tiny dog around the formal gardens, distant enough that their shrill cries are just pleasant background noise.

‘Workin’ hard, I see,’ Porthos says dryly.

Aramis tilts his head back to smile at him. ‘Gentlemen, you missed all the excitement,’ he says. ‘Have some of this wine, it’s rather good.’

‘The captain thought you might require assistance,’ Athos says pointedly, accepting a cup of wine.

‘Not at all,’ d’Artagnan says breezily. 'All wrapped up two days ago.'

Athos' shrewd gaze rakes over them, taking in the bandage on d'Artagnan's head, the bruise on Aramis' face. ‘What became of the false Comte?’ he says. 

Aramis grins. Constance opens her mouth, but it’s already too late to stop him. ‘Constance defeated him, broke the spirit of his remaining men, and delivered two musketeers, one Comte, and one kitten safely to our destination.’ He catches her eye, still smiling slyly, then looks at Athos. ‘I’m going to ask the captain if we can take her instead of you on all future missions.’

‘That’s a ridiculous exaggeration,’ Constance says, blushing.

‘Kitten?’ Athos says.

‘Don’t talk to d’Artagnan about the kitten.’

‘Toxic little fur ball,’ d’Artagnan says darkly. Liko has crept into his room twice since his reappearance, and d’Artagnan’s eyes and nose have been streaming almost constantly.

‘Thanks for putting up with them, Constance,’ Porthos says politely. ‘Sounds like you had your work cut out for you.’ He takes the seat next to Aramis, shrewd eyes taking in his careful posture and bruised face. ‘You alright?’ he adds in an undertone, and Aramis nods, meeting his eye with a sudden glint of sincerity. Athos, watching this exchange, relaxes marginally.

‘I’ll look forward to your full report,’ he says, raising an eyebrow.


End file.
